fiction, poetry, collaborative practice

fiction

Lahnu looked down into the valley as he rested against the stack of firewood that he had collected for his mother. His little village nestling quietly in the valley was surrounded by hills – almost fortified – so nothing passed through to it. Not even the rain, nor the wind, nor the clouds. Not even the local politician who visited the headmen of all the hamlets in the district every election time so that they’d know what symbol to vote for in order to ensure a resplendent liquor and chicken party for themselves. Lahnu’s village was not graced by these visits. It was not worth the trouble. It was too far a trek by foot through the dense jungle and, with just a handful of huts, of no consequence to the power structures that be. So it was out of reckoning everywhere.

Before the number, makes and sizes of cars in the city proliferated like roaches in an unkempt house; the wide, six-road junction at Churchgate Station never had subways networking the ground beneath its feet.